If you ever want to bring the house down on karaoke night, all you need is a rocking tune, an energetic performance and a hairy dude in a poodle skirt. Trust me, it works.

It was Halloween night in 2004 and a bunch of us ducked out of a party and headed to a bar on the corner to grab a few beers and show off our costumes. I can’t recall what all of us wearing, but I’m sure that our friend Camo made a dashing woman, complete with a pink poodle skirt, blonde wig and a low cut shirt that revealed chest hair whose equal could only be found on Burt Reynolds.

So there we were, all dressed up and drinking beers in the back of a dive bar. The seven of us were the only ones in the place wearing costumes, which meant there we were plenty of sideways looks as we walked into the place.

Now karaoke is rarely a good idea, but for some reason after a few pitchers of Livonia Lite, those bad ideas start seeming like genius. So of course, impaired judgment somehow managed to get us to put our names in, settle our tabs and head up on stage.

As the opening riffs of The Darkness’ I Believe in a Thing Called Love came blasting out of the speakers, a hundred poker-faced trashers just stared back at us. Matt was on lead, jumping up on tables, singing his lungs out while Jeff, Do and I did our best on backing vocals and Camo danced his ass off. It wasn’t long before the crowd was into it, singing and clapping along.

And just as quickly as it began, the song ended and we stood there in silence, staring back at the crowd. That’s when Do grabbed the mic and said “Thank you! You’ve been a great audience! Good night!” raised the mic over his head and dropped it and walked out the door. The rest of us had no idea what to do, so we followed him. The few friends we’d left standing there watching us perform said the house came down. People were cheering and clapping and a waitress even suggested hiring us to entertain on the weekends.

We’ve followed the performance up a couple times. Do has done it best, rocking a strange neighborhood bar in Chicago one night after a Cubs-Tigers game, playing air guitar with the mic stand and gyrating behind an unsuspecting girl who was headed across the bar in front of him. Suffice it to say, I Believe in a Thing Called Love has become a bit of a tradition amongst the L-Town crew. One I hope doesn’t end any time soon.

Years ago (and seeming another life) ago, I lived in Oklahoma. Fresh out of college, it was the best job I could find.

So I’m down there one night covering a town council meeting in the heart of the Little Dixie section of Oklahoma, a village whose sole claim to fame is that it was the site of the last surrender by Confederate forces at the end of the Civil War. Of course, they prefer to phrase it as the site of “the last Confederate holdouts in the war of Northern agression,” but I digress.

So I’m there, covering this meeting, during which the dirt-covered, overall-wearing head of the public works department lobbied to buy a new oil pump for the “village truck,” and the clerk had to stop several times while reviewing the previous months’ minutes because she couldn’t read her own handwriting out of the official village spiral notebook. So really, for small town Oklahoma, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Of course, I hadn’t yet talked to the mayor, and I had no idea that I was in for down home, ignorant, but at the same time warm welcome to the area.

So after standing there chatting with the guy for a little while, I hand him my business card. He takes one look at it and says “Rusty Shackleford, well that’s a polack name,” I just stand there for a second, not sure of what to say and he continues. “Where are you from, you don’t talk like us.”

“Detroit,” I reply.

“Dee-troit?” he asked. “Well shit, I used to work in a Packard plant during the war. I lived in Hamtramck, that’s how I knew you was a polack.”

Well, it’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

I’ve got some rednecks in my family and those rednecks have even bigger rednecks for friends.

Several years ago, Little Brother, Cousin Andy and their friend the Hippie went to visit Cousin Andy’s family on Walton’s Mountain. Many members of my family were there, including my parents and other assorted aunts and cousins for the annual fall festival. It was a whole big thing and Little Brother, Cousin Andy and the Hippie decided to go along and raise some Hell.

They spent the better part of the weekend hanging with Cousin Andy’s brother, Cousin Skippy and their friend McV doing redneck things like taking a smashed up Ford Bronco with the top cut off (they had rolled it months before, so why the hell not?) two-tracking over the mountain. They drank a lot of beer and all came back to the D saying “Git ‘er done.” It was a very dark time in my family.

Anyway, after a particularly long night of drinking and carousing, the five got up early, drank some beers and went looking for trouble. Their great idea — well mostly McV and Cousin Skippy’s idea — was to get some guns and head out into the country to shoot some stuff. It was a well thought out plan which basically consisted of McV shouting at them, “Get the beer, get the guns and get your asses in the truck.”

Little Brother, Cousin Andy and the Hippie were a little concerned; apparently they hadn’t drank enough yet, so this didn’t sound like the greatest idea. In Detroit, this kind of plan usually involves shooting a gat out of the passenger window of an Impala and then pouring out some King Cobra for your dead homies, so it wasn’t the way they were used to spending their Saturday afternoon. But in spite of their better judgment, they all hopped in the truck and away they went.

The quickest way to get where ever it was that they were going was to head through downtown, right through the heart of the festival. Also, it would give them a chance to check out the action, after all, it’s not every day that the streets of downtown Walton’s Mountain are packed with tourists.

So as they’re rolled through downtown, McV, steering wheel in one hand, can of beer in the other, saw a pretty girl walking by and decided to lean across Little Brother (who was riding shotgun) and yell at her while honking the horn. Lost in all this leering was the fact that a police officer was directing traffic, standing in the middle of the upcoming intersection.

McV, more concerned with the pretty blonde walking by, rolled right through that intersection and damn near hit the cop, swerving just in time.

Little Brother said he wasn’t sure if it was the beer, the loaded guns or whatever else any of them may or may not have been carrying, but McV did what you’d expect a young man who had just nearly hit a cop while doing about 15 other illegal things would do; he ran.

Now this wasn’t any kind of O.J.-style police chase through the bustling streets of Walton’s Mountain, McV ran just long enough to toss the beer can into the bed of his truck and instruct the Hippie sit on top of the loaded rifle and Cousin Andy hold the .45. Once he’d hidden the evidence under two terrified out-of-towners, McV pulled the truck over.

So Little Brother was now in full freak out mode, convinced that he was going to pound-me-in-the-ass prison.

The cops, because they weren’t total morons, were on to them immediately. The guys reeked of beer and were sweating like R. Kelly at a Girl Scout meeting — it was obvious that they were up to something. One of the officers ran their IDs while the other had to listen to a very convincing story about how they they definitely hadn’t been drinking that morning and that the reek of booze and the hundred empty beer cans in the bed of the truck were from the night before.

Little Brother had a lot to think about in those few minutes. Would our parents walk by and see them? Would the cops search the car? He said that he was absolutely convinced that he was going to end up in jail that day, but all’s well that ends well, because for some reason the officers let them go.

Little Brother isn’t exactly sure what happened — maybe they got another call or maybe they just didn’t feel like doing all the paper work involved in booking a bunch of out-of-towners — whatever the case, they were let off with a very stern warning.

As they climbed back into vehicle, the officer handed them their IDs and said to McV “If I see you driving through town again today I will stop you and you will go to jail.” There was no need for a warning, Little Brother said, there was no way in Hell they were coming back to downtown Walton’s Mountain any time soon.

In fairness, I should have known better than to let a trainee lead a class on his first site, but he said he was ready.

The trainee, not so affectionately known as Eggs (a play on his last name) was a large man from the upper peninsula who looked like he walked right out of the Hiawatha National Forest and into a newsroom.

He wore a plaid shirt (as close as you can get to flannel without it actually being something Paul Bunyan would have worn) tucked in to the elastic waistband of his black dress pants. He completed the outfit with white sneakers and gym socks. Journalists and IT guys are notoriously poor dressers, so he fit right in amongst the newsroom- and systems-types.

Eggs was a memorable character, often more cartoon than human. He brought a snake to his job interview to use during the demonstration portion (we all had to show that we knew how to teach, Eggs taught us how to feed his snake.) Another time he got so blotto during an after work game of flip cup (such things were the norm back then) that he spent the night sleeping it off under his desk. He was a former reporter and college rugby player. When I picked him up to leave for the site he had three suitcases and an oscillating fan.

So there we are, the lumberjack and I, standing in front of a very skeptical audience of disgruntled journalists from the stabbiest town in Ohio, trying to convince them that the new way of doing things is better. In case you’re wondering, for these folks, even if the new way actually is better, IT’S NEVER BETTER, but I digress.

At this point we’d been through a few of these classes and Eggs was itching to get his feet wet. When he asked if he could teach the next class I told him sure, as long as he was prepared. This meant making sure he had an outline and some sample stories to demonstrate how the system worked for the users. Usually I just grab a story from the AP as an example to show the users how to spell check, etc. Eggs said he had a file to use, so I turned the class over to him. Because the class was large, he had his desktop projected up on a very large screen.

Eggs was cruising through, not doing a bad job for his first time, when it came time to show the class how to use the spell check.

“So you go up here to the Edit menu and choose ‘Check Spelling,’” he said.

And as soon as he clicked on the spell check, highlighted in blue a few sentences in, was the f-bomb.

To his credit, Eggs was quick on his feet. “Oops. Let’s try again,” he said as he clicked on the button to skip that word and move on to the next. Sadly, it only got worse from there, as the next word was a word even more vile. If you’re wondering, it started with a C.

Still don’t get it? I’ll tell you when I SEE YOU NEXT TUESDAY.

So there I was, standing off to the side of the room watching this train wreck, not knowing what word would come up next if he tried to continue to use the spell check. There’s no way it could have gotten worse, right? Honestly, I was afraid of the answer to that question.

So I started to address the class, making as big a spectacle of myself as possible. I was moving around, talking very loudly and gesturing wildly with my hands. I was doing anything to distract them from the Andrew Dice Clay routine of a sample story that Eggs had put up on the projector.

As I spoke, he worked the file down to a place that had a words that wouldn’t turn your grandmother to stone and I turned the class back over to him. Everything else was fine from there on out, but you’d better believe I let him have it once the users had left the room.

“What the hell was that?” I asked.

“I’m really sorry,” he replied. “That was some of my fiction, I guess I didn’t realize it had that kind of language in it.”

“Are you kidding me?” I shouted. “How is it that you wrote something, but didn’t know that it had swear words in it?”

He didn’t have an answer and shockingly, for a completely different reason, he didn’t last much longer at our company after that.

Survivors Beach
There‘s not a whole lot to it, but it’s worth seeing if you’re a huge Lost nerd like me. It’s a little bit of a hike down the beach, so be prepared and dress appropriately. Also, since there is quite a bit of walking, take some water, even if you’re not Hurley-sized, you’ll need it.

To get there, take the Kamehameha Highway from Honolulu towards Haleiwa. Hit a left at Papailoa road and follow that around until you find a parking area and beach access. Once you get to the beach, hit a left and hike for about 1/2 mile. You’ll recognize the beach and trees when you see it.

The Others village
The Others village is a YMCA camp on Oahu’s north shore. You can see it very easily from the road, but it’s tricky because there is only one way in and out. I was on a tight schedule, so I didn’t explore too much, but there’s a big sign that seems to make clear that they don’t mind visitors, so long as they check in at the camp office.

To get there from Honolulu, head north on H2 toward Wahiawa and take that to the 803. Stay straight at Waialua (803 turns into 930) for another ten miles or so and the camp will be on the left.

Beach where the plane crashed
Across the street from the Others Village is the beach where the plane crashed. You can park in any of the pullouts along the side of the road and walk over the berm to see the wide-open beach. It’s actually quite striking.

Submarine dock, Dharma station, Hurley’s golf course
I actually missed all of these because I didn’t have the time (stupid work) but all the reviews say these are the best ones to see while you’re there (stupid, stupid work.) It’s worth noting that these are on private land, but you can take a tour that includes not only Lost stuff,  but places where they’ve filmed movies like Jurassic Park and others.

You can book a tour here. The Kualoa Ranch is off of Highway 83 on Hawaii’s North Shore.

Other areas to see for the true fanboy.
Windward Community College (Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute)
Sun’s father’s house in “Korea”
Rainbow Drive-in where Hurley and Sayid grab burgers (Get there for breakfast and try the Portuguese sausage)
Waimea Falls (Where the survivors gather water and Kate and Sawyer get all romagical)
Jelly’s Music

You can check out more sites on the Lost Virtual Tour

With our list of fun things to do in Norwalk exhausted, Schreiber and I decided to head down to the city to hang out with Neil, Katie and Jessica. After some sight-seeing and a bro-magical dinner date in Little Italy, we headed to the bar to meet with some fellow Detroiters.

The night was fun, but also educational. For example, we learned a few things that night that Katie’s tolerance is three drinks — not four and definitely not five. If you get to the fourth round, let her just sit there nursing her Vanilla Stoli and Coke, she won’t mind if you have another drink without her. If you buy her another round, chances are, the next day she’ll mind. She’ll mind very much.

We also learned — well I learned anyway — that after that fourth round of drinks, arm wrestling may sound like a great idea. It’s not.

So there we are, after a few sodas, heading uptown to get some pizza near Katie and Jessica’s place in Morningside Heights. During the trip, Jessica starts talking about how she’s getting super strong from her boxing class.

“Kick boxing,” I ask?

“No, boxing boxing,” she says, throwing a few jabs into my shoulder.

The conversation continues as we sit down with our pizza, Jessica is flexing her biceps, preening for the imaginary cameras like she’s Ali getting ready to fight Frazier. “Look how strong I am,” she says. “Look at these muscles.”

Jessica says that boxing class isn’t the only thing that builds muscle. She tells us that the only thing tougher than working the heavy bag is drying her hair each morning. I’m not quite sure what that means, as I just run a towel over my head and walk out the door, but she insists and Katie agrees. It must be a girl thing. Ryan, Neil and I just give her a confused look. “The point is,” she says, “look how big my muscles are!”

While Jessica continues to flex, some creepster sitting behind me is leering. He had that look, like whatever money he has leftover after buying Mets season tickets is spent on voyeur porn; he’s in his 50s, balding, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, a blue button down shirt and dark slacks. Really, he just kind of looks like a Larry David’s sad brother, but I like to think he’s a little more complicated than that. So there he is, staring, but Jessica doesn’t seem to notice; she’s too busy pushing on her left bicep with her right index finger, talking about how rock hard it is.

I should see it coming, I mean Jessica has been talking about her muscles for 20 minutes now. I should know that she’s going to have to prove her strength sooner or later. I should know that sitting directly next to her is just asking for it. I should know, but somehow I’m completely surprised when someone — I don’t know who — shouts “You guys should arm wrestle!”

I try to talk my way out of it, but Schreiber has already got his phone out to take pictures and the creepy dude behind me — Jessica’s new stalker — jumps up, grabs the back of my chair (with me still on it) and moves me around the table so that I’m in position across from her. There she sits, staring at me, elbow on the table, hand in the air, challenging me, taunting me, laughing at me.

There’s no turning back now. I sheepishly put my arm up on the table, keenly aware that regardless of the outcome, I’m walking out of this pizza place the loser. I guess it’s just another one of those life lessons I get to pass on one day. “Son, there’s just no way to arm wrestle a lady and be graceful about it.”

For lack of anything else to do in Norwalk, Conn., Schreiber and I went to Norwalk’s top tourist attraction (according to tripadvisor.com): Stew Leonard’s dairy store. Apparently once featured in Ripley’s Believe It or Not, it is the country’s biggest dairy store. I’m not quite sure what that means, but it was a shopping trip to be remembered.

We kind of scoffed when a search of things to do in Norwalk brought this up, but shit, we had to go grocery shopping anyway, so we figured we may as well do it some place interesting. Honestly though, interesting doesn’t really do it justice. If the folks who run Chuck E. Cheese built a grocery store, it would be Stew Leonard’s. Intense is the only way to describe it.

The path through Stew Leonard’s reminds me of IKEA, winding purposefully from department-to-department. It was kind of nice to avoid the awkward hokey-pokey you do with your cart when you nearly run into a distracted mother at the end of each aisle. Everybody was walking in the same direction and if they needed something, they’d just pull over to the side and grab it.

The controlled traffic flow also ensures that you get to see every attraction Stew Leonard throws at you, from the band of milk cartons to the talking broccoli and the overall-wearing, anthropomorphic pig trapeze artists swinging from the rafters. It sounds funny to say, but the people who worked there seemed as happy as their mechanical counterparts, well, with one exception, but I’m sure that his fleeting grumpiness was my doing.

I’m sure he’s usually nice, but you see, there’s this robot cow in the dairy department with a big, blinking, bright, red button on its chest. No kid could possibly resist it, so when they stand on their tippy toes, stretch their little arms as far as they can and finally get their their sticky little hands up there, they are rewarded with a bellowing MOOOOOOOO from the cow that seems to shake the shelves. This poor bastard must hear that cow moo hundreds of times a day. It must haunt his dreams. I can only imagine Santa bringing his kid the barnyard version of the See N’ Say and him getting so pissed off that he throws it through the window and out into a snow bank. WHAT DOES THE COW SAY NOW? HUH? DAMMIT!

But I digress. Where were we? Oh yeah, the button. So I thought about not pressing it for a second, but the kid in me couldn’t resist the draw of something so bright, shiny and, well, blinky. I just had to push the button and when I did, and the cow let out that MOOOOOOOOO, I had to push it again. If I were that guy stocking the shelf, I might have tried to run me over with the cart he was wheeling all those milk cartons around on, but to his credit, he just gave me a dirty look. That man deserves all the credit in the world for controlling his rage, he’s a far better man than I.

After annoying the guy stocking the shelves, Schreiber and I had to stop and take a moment to look at the dairy department. You can watch milk cartons being filled and see the cows that provide the moo juice on closed circuit tv. I’m glad they didn’t have a similar set up in the deli.

All the theatrics aside, they have a pretty good selection of fresh produce, dairy, seafood and meat. It’s a good thing there isn’t one in my town, I’d be broke. If you’re ever in Norwalk and looking for something to do, take a stroll through.

Oh, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that they have reasonably priced lobster dinners, including corn and a drink at the restaurant out front. Get there early, it’s pretty popular and they tend to run out.

I spent a couple weekends there a little bit ago. Here’s what I saw:

Beale Street
I checked out Beale Street twice while I was there, the first time on a Sunday afternoon and the second on a Saturday night. Saturday night was fun, lots of drinking and craziness ensued, but going on a laid back Sunday afternoon was the best way to do it. I spent most of my time at Mr. Handy’s Blues Hall, which from outward appearances, seemed to be the last real juke joint on Beale Street. Everything else looked like it was catering to the same Crocs and jort-wearing schlubs I saw at Graceland the day before.

For the most part, it was just me, the bartender and a blues band. Every now and again someone would stop in for a moment, including at one point a group of Asian tourists. When they told the bandleader that they were from Alabama, the band broke into the bluesiest — and quite frankly the most tolerable — version of Sweet Home Alabama that I’ve ever heard.

I went back to Mr. Handy’s the following Saturday but it just wasn’t the same. For one, there was a cover (boooooo) and even if I had gone in, the place was so full of meatheads that it would have been nearly impossible to get a beer or enjoy the band.

That said, I was there with my buddy Ryan on Saturday night and it was fun if you are looking to party. Lots of folks out looking drunk and stupid, if you’re into that kind of thing. We weren’t, but we were definitely up for watching them act drunk and stupid. The people watching was great.

Sun Studio
Never heard of it? Well, ever heard of these guys? Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis? Yep, all those guys recorded there in the 1950s and ’60s. The studio’s claim that it is the birthplace of rock ‘n roll is hard to dispute.

Sun Studio is still active and bands like U2 and Matchbox 20 continue to record there. Hell, for a couple hundred dollars you can record there — and even borrow some of the instruments they have laying around if you’ve forgotten your own.

Sun Studio started out as the home for many famous blues musicians (like everything else in Memphis), so at the beginning of the tour when the guide was throwing around the names of all the famous blues artists who’d been there, I felt a little embarrassed that I didn’t recognize many of them. It made me feel better to look around and see all the folks in Harley-Davidson t-shirts and Git-r-done baseball caps politely nodding their heads hoping to God that the guy will start talking about Elvis soon.

Fear not, mouth-breathers, he gets there soon enough. Most of the tour takes place in the studio. It was spine-tingling to stand in the same spot where the greats recorded. The tour, which was $12 and takes about an hour was the best thing I did all weekend that didn’t involve live music.

Graceland
Graceland was intense and definitely worth seeing, most of all for the people watching.

For some reason Elvis still resonates with people like few other celebrities did. Our maintenance man at work sings (badly) Elvis tunes at the top of his lungs while he cleans the restrooms.

There are millions of fans out there just like him, and Graceland is their Mecca.

For them it’s a shrine to one of the greatest rock stars in history. For me, it looked like an outdated home that was decorated by a D student from the Donald Trump school of interior design. By 1960s standards, I’m sure it was baller.

It was fascinating to see a bit of history and the sad sacks in Crocs and jorts singing Can’t Help Falling In Love with You graveside made it worth every penny of admission.

Frankly, it was worth seeing just to say you’ve seen it. Admission is a bit steep, but if you do go pay the extra so you can see all of the other stuff that goes along with the house tour. The museum full of Elvis’ cars was particular fascinating.

Elmwood Cemetery
Call me morbid, but I’m a sucker for graveyards. For some reason, I think they are beautiful in their sadness. Elmwood cemetery is where all the society types from Memphis’ old days were buried. There are huge gravestones, mausoleums and even some controversial graves like former Confederate general George Gordon, an early leader of the Ku Klux Klan. It’s a beautiful place, but get there early, the cemetery closes its gates at 4:30 p.m.

Barbecue
The barbecue. The barbecue. HOLY CRAP THE BARBECUE.

Of course I ate barbecue while I was there. Do I look like the kind of person who says no to a meal? While there, among other places I checked out the Pig on Beale, Blues City Cafe and Neely’s and every place was amazing. I’m talking, meat sliding off the bone, I’m getting hungry just thinking about it amazing. I imagine it’s hard to find a bad meal in Memphis — and believe me, I did my best to try — but I didn’t have a single bad thing to eat while I was down there.

Ryan, who I had no idea is an avid Food Network-watcher, pointed us at Neely’s and holy crap. We couldn’t decide on what we wanted to order and so we went with the sampler, which included a little a lot of everything. We were audibly enjoying it so much that at one point the woman sitting behind us asked what we ordered because she wanted the same. It was like when Harry Met Sally but with dudes and barbecued meat.

If you like barbecue, Memphis is your place. If you don’t like barbecue, well, there’s always Chick-fil-A.

The Statue of Liberation through Christ
How could I forget about this. Apparently there is a church down in Memphis that thought it would be a good idea to build a replica of the Statue of Liberty holding a Bible and a cross. The statue represents what America is really about, the builders said. America is a christian nation and it needs to return to those values before it sews its own destruction.

*Sigh*

Welcome to the Bible belt.

If you ever happen to find yourself in Sheryl Crow’s hometown, eat at the town’s best restaurant — McDonald’s.

Seriously.

On our way to Memphis last weekend, Schreiber and I made the mistake of believing a review on Poynt and went to the Cotton Patch buffet as we passed through Kennett, Missouri.

The Cotton Patch used to be an Asian buffet, but was taken over by a southern-American family of mediocre cooks and their half-wit children. As you can see from the picture, the place hasn’t changed much since the previous owners were there, well, except for the sticky layer of grime that seemed to coat every surface in the place.

To be fair, some of what they served was pretty good, the meatloaf, catfish and fried chicken in particular. Then again, the fried okra was rock hard and the mac & cheese was so watery it may as well have been served in a soup bowl.

The food aside, the trip might have been downright forgettable if it weren’t for their dimwitted children. First, we were graced with a great conversation with the son.

Dimwit son: My neighbors brew their own beer. They make their own moonshine too.

Us: Oh, that’s neat.

Dimwit son: You know how they get moonshine to be the color it is? If you don’t know, you don’t even want to know.

Us: *poker face*

Dimwit son: No, I’m serious. You really don’t want to know.

Us: *eating faster.*

Dimwit son: They filter it through horse poop. I’m serious man.

The kid then sat there with a shit-eating grin on his face, waiting for our reaction. Instead, we hurriedly choked down our food and got to the register as quickly as we could to pay the bill. That’s when we came to realize the daughter, although less slack-jawed, was just as slow, as she, her mother and a customer in line in front of us had this conversation.

Talking about one of the workers at the restaurant

Customer: What language does he speak?

Mother: Cantonese.

Dimwit daughter: Nuh uh! He speaks Chaneese!

This goes back-and-forth like this for a few minutes, with the mother trying to explain that Cantonese is a dialect of Chinese, before my brain couldn’t handle it anymore.

Me: Cantonese is just one kind of Chinese. Like if I told you ‘if brains was grease, she couldn’t slick the head of a pin,’ you’d understand, but people up north probably wouldn’t.

She just stared at me and didn’t say another word. With that, we paid our bill and headed back on the road.

Lesson learned. When in Tennessee, don’t insist that bourbon is better than whiskey (even if it’s blended Canadian garbage.)

I spent a long weekend in Memphis, purposely driving around shady neighborhoods looking for cool sites. I had no idea that the most exciting — and potentially most dangerous — event would happen at the hotel bar.

There I was, Friday night at the Holiday Inn bar, glass of Maker’s in my hand, hanging out with some fellow weary business travelers, when one of the guys at the bar asks for some Crown Royal.

“Sorry,” the bartender says, “we’re all out. How about some Maker’s Mark?”

Now at this point you should know that the five or six of us at the bar, this guy included, had spent the hour leading up to this talking sports and making a lot of jokes about each others’ choice in fandom. This guy in particular was a Tennessee fan.

So I say “He’s doing you a favor by being out of Crown Royal, Maker’s is way better.”

“Fuck that, I want some real whiskey,” the guy says.

Everybody is laughing, I think the guy and I are still joking, so I say “C’mon, man up and have a big boy drink.”

Maybe the steroids finally kicked in (this guy was a total juicehead) or maybe he just really, really, really loved his home state of Tennessee, because at that point the guy gets up, gets in my face and says “Fuck you. I’m not drinking any of that Kentucky piss water. I want some Tennessee whiskey.”

Now at that point I had a choice: I could politely remind him that Crown Royal is in fact a Canadian whiskey, distilled on the shores of Lake Winnipeg, at which point he might have given me the kind of handshake that made Canadian Club’s hometown famous; or I could apologize and buy the guy a beer.

Deciding that I wasn’t really ready to die, especially not on the worn, floral print carpet of a Holiday Inn bar, I chose the latter option. Just like that, all was right with the world as if this guy hadn’t nearly torn out my throat just minutes before.